


TS story: Your Hair, Growing Short

by persephone_il (the_ragnarok), the_ragnarok



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-28
Updated: 2004-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:38:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/persephone_il, https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim marks a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TS story: Your Hair, Growing Short

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/sentinel_thurs/profile)[**sentinel_thurs**](http://community.livejournal.com/sentinel_thurs/) , for the 'beginnings' challenge.  
> Partially beta'd by Sharakh.

Jim was vaguely surprised to see the Career Day banner in the hallway. He knew it was coming, he supposed. It was three months before graduation and everyday life was littered with Balls and Something-or-other Days and Tournaments, a flurry of events during which only games and exams held any importance.

The guys on Jim's football team hadn't bothered to come to school that day. They knew what they were going to be when they grew up. So did Jim, for that matter. He was going to College, and then he'd stop sponging off his dad and work at... something.

The only reason Jim bothered to stay was indifference.

He did his best to look awake as people he didn't care to know more about entered the class. The first one in was a lawyer. Jim, who learned something from eighteen years' worth of his father's business dinners, already loathed lawyers thoroughly. He didn't even raise his head from the desk when a nurse came in to lecture about Health and Hygiene. He wasn't a _girl_.

He allowed himself to doze a little during the next few speeches. He'd perfected the art of sleeping with his eyes wide open long ago, having exercised it during the aforementioned business dinners.

He was startled awake by the sound of something hitting his desk a mere inch from his hand.

"If you're not going to listen, kid, do us all a favor and go home."

Jim raised his eyes slowly. The man standing in front of him was nearly eye-level with him, despite the fact that he was standing and Jim was sitting down. He was almost bald, and the army uniform he wore made the question of his profession an easy one.

For all that the man was short, there was a steely quality to his eyes that made Jim straighten up in his seat and say, loud and clear, "Sorry, Sir."

The man gave a surprised chuckle. "So you have some manners after all. Hard to tell, sometimes." He strolled back to the front of the class and banged on the front desk with the same wooden ruler he'd used to make Jim pay attention.

The others all perked up and paid attention, too.

"I'm here on behalf of the US Army. I heard what the people who came before me said, and I'm not going to say anything like they did. Everything you need to know is in this leaflet here." The man pulled one out of his bag and waved it sharply. "But the important thing isn't there, and that's what I came to tell you."

The man bent forward slightly, as if sharing a secret - which was stupid, of course. What kind of secret was it if thirty people knew it? But the guy even lowered his voice a bit. "See, soldiering isn't about walking around in a neat uniform, or about running around and listening to jackasses because they have more medals than you." He ignored the way the teacher gasped when he said 'jackasses'.

"Soldiering is about doing the job that's got to be done. It's not always nice and glamorous, and there's a couple dozen truckloads of mud involved in pretty much everything that a soldier does. But it's honest mud, and let me tell you this, kiddies: mud might not be pretty, but you can't make bricks out of gold." He turned around smartly and left the class, his paces brisk.

It took Jim ten minutes or so to realize the man had left a leaflet on his desk. He read it while a nervous-looking woman talked to his class about the benefits of becoming a teacher. The writing was the same crap as everything else - Do Something Significant, earn plenty of money in no time, find fame and glory. But there was something in it that captured Jim's attention and wouldn't let go.

He had no idea what the soldier's name was, or how much money the man made a year, or even what the stripes on his shoulders meant. And it hadn't mattered. The man took command with ease, twisting the attention of a class full of bored teenagers around his little finger, when none of them had any idea who he was. Jim had gotten much of his dubious popularity by way of his father's money, and everyone knew it.

Maybe, he thought, there's something else out there. Not just College and a lifetime of business dinners. Even though he didn't know it, doubts were forming inside him.

By the time graduation rolled by, the doubts had ripened into a decision. He walked in the busy halls, and the knowledge felt like a light inside him. He was surprised that no one had asked yet him why he began to glow in the dark. He felt eyes on him, but there were always eyes on him, alive with jealousy and calculation and, occasionally, desire. He was considered pretty good as boyfriend material, he knew.

His hair was slightly longer than normal, and he was surprised no one noticed that, either. He'd skipped his meetings with the barber for the last three months, and it was beginning to show. The thought that someone might point that out made him slightly nervous, but it was important. He'd had a new-recruit haircut for the better part of his life. If he didn't even have his hair cut, it wouldn't feel real.

On the day of graduation, Jim went up to the stage, did the necessary things, and left the school grounds very quietly. His father had a meeting, for which Jim was grateful, and Stevie - if he had any intention of showing up in the first place - was on a school trip. Had he attached any significance to this day, he might have wanted to take a few pictures to show to Sally; as it was, he was happy to get away from there as quickly as possible.

The trip to the army offices took fifteen minutes by bus. Within two hours, Jim was sent home with an order to pack his personal belongings and be back by six thirty the next morning. He was home before supper, and felt fortunate that Sally never asked inconvenient questions like "Why are you so quiet?"

Although, come to think of it, silence wasn't exactly a surprise when it came from him.

He set his clock to five-thirty, but woke up half an hour before it rang. He'd already packed everything, and getting ready took less than five minutes. He still had three-quarters of an hour, not counting the time it would take to get to the army offices. He took out his razor from the cabinet, and took a deep breath.

Half an hour later, he walked slowly down the stairs. He was halfway through making himself a cup of coffee before he realized someone was staring at him. Stevie was leaning against the wall, a cup of orange juice in his hands, his expression blank. For a minute, it was as though Jim could see himself reflected in his brother's eyes, with his newly-bare head and the duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

Stevie set the cup on the counter. "So," he said. "You're leaving."

"Yeah." Jim's voice felt as though he hadn't spoken in months.

"Fine. Good luck." Stevie sounded harsh, but he stepped closer.

"You too." His scalp was tingling, and the air felt colder against it. Jim shivered slightly.

Stevie took a step, another one, and he was standing next to Jim. He pursed his lips, then said, quickly, "Are you coming back?"

Jim shrugged.

Stevie looked away. Then, in a swift gesture, he touched Jim's scalp. It was hesitant and quickly over, but Jim felt as though he had a hand-shaped mark on his head now.

For a moment, he wanted desperately to wrap his arms around Stevie, like he did when they were young and scared of the dark. For the first time in three months, Jim reconsidered his plan. Maybe he should stay. Maybe he could--

Stevie turned and left the kitchen without a word. Jim blinked in the semi-darkness, and readjusted the position of his duffle bag, which had slipped a little.

He left a note for Sally, to keep her from worrying. He didn't take such precautions for his father: if the old man cared, let him come and look for Jim. Or he could ask Stevie, who might actually tell him the truth for a change.

He locked the door behind him, and slipped the key underneath it. "Good riddance," he muttered under his breath, and meant it as only a teenager running away from home can.

***

The memory of it came sharply to him one spring morning, with the scent of shaving cream and the snip of scissor blades. He blinked a few times, the morning sun suddenly too bright for him, and the feel of his own freshly shaved head came back to him. It had been years since his hair was quite that short.

When Sandburg came out of the bathroom and twirled around theatrically, Jim thought he felt an echo of the shock that must have passed through Stevie all those years ago.

"What do you think?" Sandburg asked, and opened his arms wide like a game-show host presenting the prize.

Jim swallowed, and said, "I didn't expect you to go skinhead," which was true.

Blair flashed a grin at him. "I look all ready to stomp on skulls and burn books, huh? No, seriously. How do I look?"

"Bald."

Blair stuck out his tongue, then plopped down on the couch beside Jim. "Check it out," he said. "It feels _weird_." He ran a hand over his scalp and shivered. "Betcha it's gonna itch like hell in a week."

"Probably." He risked a cautious glance at the top of Sandburg's head. If he concentrated, he could see the hair follicles and the residue of oil on the skin. He tried not to concentrate.

"And I bet you can still feel the hairs. I can't, but that's not saying much, is it? Not compared to you, anyway. Here," and before he could register anything Sandburg grabbed his hand and plastered it to the supposedly-smooth head.

He could feel the hairs - what little was left of them, anyway - moving under the skin. Skin that was hotter than it had any right to be, burning right into his palm. He wondered if his hand might melt; glue itself to Blair's skull. As if the 'joined at the hip' comments weren't bad enough.

"Why this short?" he asked, and hoped Blair wouldn't comment on the sudden hoarse tone his voice had taken.

"It's a boundary thing. Marking passage, you know? Besides, I never had it all off. New experiences are good for the soul." Sandburg twisted slightly, turning his head so his eyes could meet Jim's. He looked slightly ridiculous, with the bluish-white skin of his scalp standing in sharp relief against Jim's hand, but Jim couldn't bring himself to withdraw it. It might as well have melted there.

Blair narrowed his eyes for a second, then blinked and scuttled closer, leaning his head against Jim's chest. Jim found his hand had developed a will of its own, smoothing the fragile, newly-bared skin. Blair's arms were wrapped around him, and he let out something that might have been a sigh.

Hair wasn't anything permanent, he knew. It grew back and got cut again. It changed. Jim's hair, when he first cut it himself, had been an insult; Blair's was a promise.

"Nice," Blair said, drowsily, as Jim's hand settled on the nape of his neck.

"Yeah."

They stayed like that, silent, for some time.

 **End**


End file.
